


Homecoming

by Damerel



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:21:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damerel/pseuds/Damerel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Edgerton doesn't have a home.  And that's the way he likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple of years ago for the LJ Numb3rs New Year challenge. I incorporated as many of the recipient’s prompts as I could, which resulted in a fic that’s a little different from my usual pieces (not least because it’s almost pure h/c). Because of that, I didn’t originally post it here with my other Numb3rs fic, but as I’ve now been asked to for reasons of accessibility, here it is.

The things capable of taking down Ian Edgerton could be counted on the fingers of one hand and still leave several to spare. Unfortunately, Ian realised, he was going to have to add another item to that very short, very exclusive list. Colby Granger had just opened his apartment door in answer to Ian's knock and the look of delight on his face twisted its way past every single one of Ian's defences.

"I didn't know you were in LA," Colby said, sounding almost as surprised as he was pleased.

"What would be the fun in letting people know beforehand?" Ian asked, shouldering his duffel and gun case and stepping into Colby's small apartment. "I'd probably end up getting a math lecture."

"You know you'll get that anyway," Colby pointed out as he closed the door and watched Ian drop his bags to the hall floor.

"Was hoping I might get something else first," Ian said, because subtlety was overrated.

“Really?” There was a grin in Colby’s voice as Ian let himself be crowded back against the wall, Colby’s large body pressed against his.

Ian’s hand went to the nape of Colby’s neck, holding him as they kissed. It had been too long since he’d last had this, had Colby, and he didn’t intend to waste an instant before reacquainting himself properly. Colby was kissing him back just as enthusiastically, his tongue pushing into Ian’s mouth while his hands were busy on Ian’s belt. He wasted no time working his way into Ian’s jeans, his hand curving round Ian, slightly rough fingertips the perfect friction as he worked Ian to complete hardness.

After one last deep kiss, Colby sank to his knees, and then he looked up at Ian as he rubbed his face against Ian’s cock, tongue flicking out to his lips to lick away the trail of wetness it had left on them. Colby was the strangest mix of sweetness and dirtiness Ian had ever known, even if right now he didn’t care about that, he just cared about getting Colby’s mouth pushing down onto his cock. Oh, God, like _that_. Ian’s head fell back against the wall as Colby’s warm slick mouth surrounded him. He wrapped his hands in Colby’s hair, or tried to—it was too damn short and he was going to have to have words with Colby about that, only it would have to wait, because Colby was so fucking good at taking Ian’s cock. Ian recovered enough to look down, to watch the way Colby took him into his mouth, his lips stretched tight, cheeks hollowed, making little noises of pleasure deep in his throat.

It was an embarrassingly short time later that Ian groaned and came. Colby got back on his feet and started kissing Ian again, and it was no time at all before Colby jolted under the touch of Ian’s hand, a breathless whine escaping him. And then they were left staring at the mess on Colby’s jeans and Ian’s hand, until Colby raised Ian’s hand to his mouth and carefully, slowly, licked off every last trace in a way that had Ian wanting nothing more than to take Colby to his bed, pin him down, and fuck him till he forgot his name.

So he did. When Ian pushed into Colby, his breath coming in harsh short pants, stirring the soft hair at the nape of Colby’s neck, for an instant he had the disorienting feeling that this was like coming home.

 

Later, they lay in bed together, and Colby traced Ian's body with his hands, over and over, the way he always did, as though making sure Ian really was there.

"You might just have got me kicked out of the Bureau," he said. "I've got my fitness test tomorrow—don't reckon I've got a hope of passing after _that."_

"I was limbering you up for it."

"Well, yeah, and ensuring every other guy in the locker room can see just what I was up to tonight," Colby complained, a hand to the mark over his collarbone that Ian had left. They were usually much more careful than that, but it had been too long and something inside Ian had wanted to mark Colby, so that when he left again, there was still something of him here.

Realisation about Ian’s intention finally dawned on Colby. "Oh," he said, startled, before his expression wavered into open disbelief and then that whole stupid delighted puppy thing he'd had going at the front door.

Ian sighed. "Granger, how the hell did you ever get recruited as an agent, let alone a spy?"

Colby glared at him, but the smile that was tugging at his lips meant his glower was anything _but_ intimidating. Ian pulled him in close and ruffled his hair into spikes, which had Colby glaring harder, until he ended up looking like a grumpy baby hedgehog.

"Just making sure everyone else knows to back off," Ian said, and pretended not to notice the way Colby moved closer into his hold even as he huffed indignantly at Ian’s statement. Ian had the suspicion that Colby wasn't sure just where he stood with Ian, but that was fine. In Ian's experience, the minute you started trying to define something, that's when it all went to crap. And Colby didn't push, which left things just the way Ian liked them—free and uncomplicated.

"Are you going into the office tomorrow?" Colby asked. "There's probably a math lecture with your name on it."

"Isn't there always? I don't know where the professor got the idea I liked math."

"Probably because you're nicer to him than you are to anyone else."

"Oh, really? You don't count what I just did to you as being nice?"

To Ian's delight, Colby honest-to-God blushed.

"I guess I'll go in and see what's going on." Ian returned to their original topic. "I'm waiting on a call from Hawaii, so I might as well see if I can do something while I'm here."

"Hawaii? The surf's awesome out there."

"You could always come with me. You'd look kind of hot in a grass skirt."

While he'd meant it as a joke, it suddenly didn't sound all that bad, having Colby with him more often, grass skirt optional. At that point Ian decided he needed to disentangle himself from Colby's warm grasp that would be so easy to relax into and go to the bathroom. He didn’t do this. He didn’t do commitment.

By the time he came back, Colby was asleep. Ian slipped into bed beside him. Colby seemed somehow to sense it and rolled over to slide an arm round Ian, his legs tangling with Ian's in a way that should have left Ian feeling trapped. Ian didn't do this for a very good reason—it never lasted. He never wanted it to last. And he realised, as he was falling asleep, that those two things possibly had something to do with one another.

***

Next morning Ian found himself at FBI headquarters, listening to Don instructing his agents in a cryptic shorthand that showed just what a well-oiled machine the team had become. And that was an unfortunate choice of image, bringing to mind as it did Colby's muscular body slicked up with baby oil and glistening. Ian took a swig from his coffee and wrenched his mind back to the topic at hand, not thinking about Colby, at this moment down in the gym undergoing strenuous physical testing. He wondered if he'd be wearing that faded FBI t-shirt, the one that had been washed so many times it was worn thin and had shrunk a bit, meaning it clung deliciously to every single one of his muscles—and that was a whole lot of muscles—when he got sweaty.

"Edgerton?"

Don was looking at him curiously, and he shook himself. God damn it, he didn't do this. He put it down to not enough sleep over the past three weeks while he'd trailed a child killer from New Mexico all the way to Maine. Seriously, Maine. Who did that? And then Ian had jumped on a plane and come out to LA ready to fly on to Hawaii. Dropping in on Colby and the rest of them while he was here was just a bonus.

"I’ll cover whatever's left," he said, looking at the map Don had divided into sectors. Charlie had done something incomprehensible to work out how gun sales on the streets of LA originated in a two-hundred square mile tract of rural California. Somewhere amidst the vineyards and the farms there had to be someone who knew something, who'd seen something out of place.

Don glanced at his watch. "You want to hold on for Colby? The two of you can take the south-east quadrant."

That sounded fine to Ian. It was the smallest area, so even with a later start they should get it done before dark. He sat down to read through the case file as Don led the rest of the team out.

Colby finally came back into the office, his hair still damp from showering, and looking loose-limbed and relaxed. Ian was not going to think about the fact he looked like that after getting fucked. He absolutely was not, because they didn't let the fact they had sex affect them when they were working. They were here to do a job. A job that could be damn dangerous if it didn't have all of their concentration all of the time. No one else on the team even knew they'd hooked up.

He tossed the map to Colby, who seemed surprised and a little disappointed to find everyone else had gone without him. "Come on, Granger—we're going on a fishing expedition."

***

"This reminds me of Idaho," Colby said as they drove through the rain to their third farmhouse of the day. So far the only success they'd had in their hunt was in being plied with coffee. It seemed the drowned-rat look they were now sporting made them look as if they were in need of succour rather than the intimidating federal agents they actually were.

"It always rain like this in Idaho?"

Ian got a withering look for his trouble. "The way there's room to breathe," Colby explained as Ian drew the car to a halt. "You don't hear everything your neighbour does. Although somehow that doesn't stop everyone knowing everyone else's business."

"Do you miss it?" Ian asked. He turned up his collar ready to get out of the car and trek up the path to the house in the rain. This was California, for God's sake—what was with the wet stuff coming down from the sky in the middle of summer?

"Yes and no. Parts of it I don't miss at all, but the fresh air, the countryside..." He shrugged slightly. "You know what LA's like."

Yeah, Ian knew. He also knew an unexpected feeling of relief at hearing Colby didn't intend to spend the rest of his life in LA. Ian didn't want to be dragging back to LA in another ten years to visit Colby. Somewhere out in the mountains, where there was space to be on his own, but space to be with Colby too—that sounded pretty near damn perfect. And he wasn't getting any nearer that sitting here looking at the rain drops sliding down the windshield.

They trudged across the wet grass, which was long enough to soak the hems of their jeans. The house, a sprawling clapboarded two-storey affair, looked quiet, with no lights on despite the overcast day. And no suggestion of movement anywhere, which was entirely at odds with the previous places they'd visited, because farmers never rested. Ian was reaching for his gun just as Colby did, but it was too late—the deafening sound of weapons fire ripped the air around them.

Hot pain tore at Ian's bicep as he ducked, diving at Colby and shoving him to the ground, rolling them both into the drainage ditch beside them. Colby's body cushioned Ian’s fall, but the force of Ian’s landing still drove the breath half out of his body. His lungs were spasming as he raised his head far enough to check the ditch was sufficiently deep to give them cover. That was something. On the not so positive side, the gunfire was still going on. He might have deduced from that fact that it hadn't been aimed at them, if not for the blood running down his arm.

He looked down at Colby, who was underneath him and seemed to be having problems getting his breath, probably because of Ian's weight on him. "You this welcoming in Idaho too?"

"Not so much," Colby managed, sounding winded.

As the gunfire finally stopped, Ian wriggled backwards off Colby to let him catch his breath. “Three guns?” he asked. He was sure there had been three different weapons contributing to that barrage, but it never hurt to check because Colby was freakishly good when it came to recognising types of gun from the sound of shots alone.

“Yeah _—fuck."_ Colby broke off, his voice thick with pain.

Ian drew his gaze back from assessing their surroundings and found Colby was trying to curl up in the tight confines of the wet ditch. His hand was clutched to his side, and Ian could see redness seeping through his fingers.

The breath punched out of Ian, but he couldn't give into it. He had to think. He had to get them out of here where they were pinned like rats in a trap.

"How bad?" he asked urgently. "We need to move."

"I'm okay," Colby said. The way he clenched his jaw after forcing the words out told a different story.

Looking past Colby, Ian saw that the ditch got shallow pretty quickly before petering out completely. Behind them, the ditch seemed to go on at the same depth for some distance, though from here there was no way of telling how far.

"Don't remember any cover for several hundred yards." Colby’s voice was tight and strained. "We're going to have to crawl."

And that was exactly what they did, through the mud and the water at the bottom of the ditch. Ian led the way, and if he paused rather too often in his belly crawl to check Colby was still close behind him, that had nothing to do with thoughts of Colby's injury and everything to do with keeping a sense of situational awareness.

At one point there was the sound of voices from the house, two men shouting, making them both freeze, but no doors opened, at least not loud enough for them to hear, and most important of all, there were no footsteps walking toward the ditch. Which made sense—Ian felt uncomfortably like a fish in a barrel right now, but he was a fish with a gun and anyone wanting to finish them off would have to lean over and show themselves, meaning they'd end up with a faceful of lead.

Time seemed to stop as Ian kept wriggling through that damn ditch. His arm hurt like hell every time he put any pressure on it to move himself forward, but they couldn't stop yet to assess the damage to either of them. They had to get somewhere more defensible. Ideally, they had to get away completely in order to regroup and come up with a plan. But whether that was possible or not depended on how clearly the men in the house were thinking. If it were him, he'd have gone to where the ditch got them to cover, and be waiting there for them to climb out. That or lob a grenade in. And _Jesus_ , he wished he hadn’t thought of that. Concentrating on listening to the soft sound of rain on the vegetation around them so his brain wouldn’t come up with any more spectacularly unwelcome ideas, he inched forward through the mud.

Finally reaching the end of the ditch, where a drainage pipe was set into the earth, cold muddy water trickling through as run-off, Ian let his head hang forward in an instant of defeat. He had a damn good idea where they were, and it was still several yards away from anything that would give them cover from the house. There was no way they could just climb out here without being spotted. On the positive side, he was sure that if the men in the house had grenades, they’ve have used them by now. He and Colby could take cover in the pipe, knowing their backs would be safe, if soggy, and that they couldn’t be taken from surprise by above. They'd just have to hole up here and wait for dark, and perhaps in the meantime reinforcements would be here.

He reached for his phone and found it gone. _Shit._ He must have lost it in the tumble down into the ditch. Colby would have his, though; it seemed like Granger couldn't live without his Twitter account, though Ian still didn't know what he used it for and Colby wasn't saying. As he looked at Colby, about to ask, his words died in his throat because Colby looked like crap. He was pale, sweating, and breathing far too heavily as he wriggled his way awkwardly through the slimy mud towards Ian. Ian helped him into the pipe. It was worth putting up with the cold water collected in the bottom for the protection it afforded. It was too small for them to sit upright, so after some awkward manoeuvring, they ended up lying next to one another, facing outward, ready for any threat.

"Your arm?" Colby asked, keeping his voice low. If the men in the house hadn't worked out where they were, there was no point in giving it away.

Despite the concern in his voice, Colby didn't look at Ian; he was focused outward, his gun in his hand—and Ian was not going to think about the fact his other hand was once again pressed against his side—while he waited for Ian to sort himself out. They'd both done this enough times to know the drill. The one least injured needed attention first, because the success of the operation might lie in their hands. Ian didn't want to think what it meant that Colby had instantly assumed he was hurt worse than Ian. It was just a scratch causing that ever-growing bloodstain on Colby's shirt, that was all.

Ian shrugged off his jacket with some difficulty, then pulled his shirt off, trusting Colby to keep watch while he did so. Shit, that was a lot more blood than he was expecting to see. He got out his knife and set to slicing up his shirt, or at least the bits of it that weren't too muddy, so he could wrap a makeshift bandage round his arm. He had to get Colby to pull it tight and tie it for him, and he didn't miss the pain on Colby's face as he moved to do so.

Once he was bandaged and had struggled back into his jacket with difficulty, because oddly enough drainage pipes didn't appear to be designed to allow six-foot-plus FBI agents to dress themselves easily, Ian turned his attention to Colby. The next few minutes were something Ian knew would stay with him, no matter how hard he tried to forget—the welling blood when Ian pulled up Colby’s t-shirt, the sounds of pain Colby made as Ian pressed part of his shirt tightly to the wound, until he doubled up, grabbing Ian's hand, all but sobbing Ian's name in a way that almost broke Ian's resolve. But he had to put the pressure on, _had_ to, no matter that the wetness on Colby's cheeks was no longer just rain and sweat.

Ian ended up taking off his belt and using it to secure the pressure pad as firmly as he could to Colby's torso, and pulled it tight despite the sounds that escaped Colby when he did so. And then he couldn't help himself—he pressed a kiss into Colby's damp hair. They didn't do this in the field, but if waiting for homicidal psychopaths to finish them off wasn't a good enough reason, Ian didn't know what was.

He lay as close to Colby as he could get, and although the water he lay in was freezing, Colby was warm plastered against his side. "You got your phone?" he asked, when Colby's breathing finally steadied again after Ian's first aid.

"Can you get it?" Colby asked, and that, right there, told Ian everything he didn't want to know about how badly off Colby was.

He snagged it from Colby's pocket, but it was soaking wet and did precisely nothing when Ian tried to turn it on. _Fuck._ Well, maybe the GPS would still be working. Or maybe Ian's would be, wherever the hell it was in the long grass. Or maybe the car was lo-jacked—it was a Bureau car after all. It was just a question of how long it took before someone thought that the fact they hadn't checked in was cause for concern. He looked at his watch, wiping off the mud to see the face, and found that even with this cloud and rain, there were another three hours before dusk.

"What's our play?" Colby asked. "Wait for dark?"

"It's all we can do. We'll be too exposed if we try to move in daylight."

Colby frowned. "But they're going to know that too. They're not going to want to risk sticking their heads in the ditch, but come dark, all they need to do is wait with spotlights or headlamps and a gun for us to try and get out. It'll be like hunting rabbits."

"Fuck that," Ian snarled, because Colby was right and he knew it. "When it gets dark, you stay here and start making a noise to draw their attention, and I'll sneak out further down and take them out."

"How's your arm?" Colby asked, and he wasn't asking as a concerned boyfriend or whatever they were; he was asking as an FBI agent who wanted to make realistic plans.

"Good enough for that," Ian said, and he wasn't bragging. He knew his body, and he knew what he could and couldn't do. "Your side?"

"Not so good," Colby said, and the fact he admitted it so readily was not a good sign.

"We just need to wait for dark."

"Yeah," Colby said. He sounded weary at the thought.

They settled as best they could in the trickle of cold water and watched the rain come down. Ian tried not to think about snakes or rats sharing their space, because getting bitten by either would top off a truly wonderful day.

"You take me to all the best places," Colby said after a while.

"You wanted nature, I gave you nature. Some people are never satisfied."

"The nature part's fine, except for the cold and the wet and the goddamn mud," Colby said. "It's the whole homicidal maniacs with automatic weapons bit I'm not so sure about."

"Be kind of boring without it, though."

"Yeah," Colby said, and shivered.

Ian moved as close to him as he could get. "You okay?"

Colby nodded tightly. "Tired."

"Oh no, you don't get to sleep and leave me to freeze my ass off in a puddle of water," Ian said. "Talk to me, Granger."

"What about?"

"Anything. You. Math. Your Great-Aunt Matilda, because I just know you've got one."

Colby laughed, but it turned into a gasp and then the only sound was the continuing rainfall and Colby's harsh panting breaths.

"So maybe not your Great-Aunt Matilda if she's that exciting," Ian said, and despite his best efforts, his worry bled through his voice.

"Not much to tell you don't already know," Colby said, making an obvious effort, and equally obviously trying to hide that fact by sounding casual. And that, right there, was what made Colby different to the rest, because no matter how many times he got knocked down, in however many ways, he just kept getting back up again. "I always wanted a dog, though."

"Yeah?" That was news to Ian. "What sort?"

"Dunno. Maybe a mongrel from a shelter. Something big, anyway."

Ian shook his head. "No. I know you, Colby—if you walk in through a shelter door, you'll walk out with every dog in the place. And then complain when Don bans them from the office."

"Dogs can fight crime too," Colby murmured, but his eyes were closed.

Ian poked him on the sternum, hard. "You do not get to sleep till we're home and in the dry," he said. "So what would you call your dog?"

"Ian," Colby said. "Then at least one of you would do what I told you."

"Smartass."

"You love my ass," Colby said. His voice sounded blurred round the edges.

Ian looked at his watch again. Not enough time had passed. Not enough time at all. Dusk was still too far off. Colby's eyes flickered open and he caught Ian looking at his watch.

"Just a bit longer," Ian said.

Colby nodded, and Ian tried not to think how it looked like he was humouring Ian.

They lay there quietly in the damp chill. Colby was shivering beside him, even though Ian had struggled out of his jacket again and laid it over him, and Ian's hands were numb as he lay in the cold water that was trickling so sluggishly through the pipe. Not so numb he didn't snap into action when he heard something—he raised his gun, his aim rock steady despite the burning in his arm. He was aware in his peripheral vision that Colby too had his gun ready, unwavering.

Colby suddenly relaxed again, and Ian couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped him when he saw the interloper: a pointed face topped by pricked red ears stared down at them for an instant before the fox raised its head again. It stood at the edge of the ditch a couple of seconds longer, one paw raised, before continuing on its way.

"Guess that answers the question about whether anyone's close by," Colby muttered.

Gunfire sounded, harsh and loud in the damp air.

"Guess _that_ answers the question of whether they're still watching the ditch," Ian said.

Colby sighed. "You reckon the fox made it?"

"Right now I'm more concerned about us."

As the minutes ticked slowly by, he had good reason to be. Colby would talk when Ian made him, but it was an obvious effort, and shivers were racking him as he tried to curl around the wound in his side. He was paler than Ian had ever seen him. Even his lips were nearly white, and he was breathing shallowly, presumably because any other way hurt. As he looked at Colby, Ian knew he didn't have until dusk. He didn't have much longer at all.

"Colby," Ian said sharply, realising he'd been quiet for too long and his eyes were closed. "Granger, wake the fuck up. You've got a job to do."

Colby opened his eyes, but his gaze seemed far away. "I remember the first time I saw you, out in Kandahar," he said, his voice strangely slow and dreamy. "The famous Ian Edgerton. I remember the way the sun shone down on you, like you were some sort of god." Colby was smiling slightly. "Like a dusty, slightly sweaty god, but still…"

"Granger!" Ian snapped it, because Colby had stopped speaking and was lying in a muddy puddle, smiling.

"But I know better now." Colby's eyes seemed suddenly to see Ian, even as his voice grew fainter. "You're not just Ian Edgerton—you're Ian _."_ He reached out his hand and rested it clumsily against Ian's cheek. It was wet with his blood and the rain, and felt so cold. "You were everything I wanted, except I didn't know half of what that was back then," he said softly, slowly.

Ian was _not_ having this. "Save it for later," he said roughly. "We're not home yet."

Colby's lips tugged slightly at the corners, even though his eyes were closed again—and when had that happened? Why hadn't Ian noticed? "Sorry," he said, and Ian didn't know what he was apologising for.

The hand on Ian's face fell away, a sudden, heavy move that felt oddly final. Cold as it had been, Ian was frozen without it.

"Eyes front, soldier," he barked.

Colby's eyes flew open to stare blankly for an instant before he finally _saw_ Ian. "Sorry," he said again.

Ian knew then. No, this was not happening. Colby Granger was not going to bleed to death in a puddle of cold water on his watch. There had to be a way out. If Ian could get down to the other end of the ditch, close to the drive where there were trees, it wouldn't take him long to get under cover; he was so caked in mud he'd be hard to spot, and he already knew their aim was lousy. And once he was no longer pinned down, Ian knew he could take each and every one of them out in a heartbeat.

It was probably the worst plan Ian had ever come up with. He refused to rate its chances because he’d end up laughing, but the alternative was unthinkable.

Ian had seen too much death to believe there was anything heroic about dying in a hail of bullets. He knew that was likely to be his fate if he did this. But at least this way there was a chance. The problem was, to carry out his plan he'd have to leave Colby. Ian could do denial as well as the next man, but the thought of leaving Colby here, of Colby dying cold and alone… But if he didn't go, Colby would definitely die, slipping quietly away beside him. This way he'd have a chance. Oh, God, please give them a chance.

His throat ached suddenly as he learned forward and tapped Colby's cheek. "Colby?"

There was no response.

_"Colby."_ He tapped harder, much harder.

Colby struggled to open his eyes, but didn't quite make it.

"Listen to me," Ian said, pouring every last bit of command into his voice that he could manage. "I'm going to work my way down to the other end of this ditch, then up to the house and take them out. Then I'll be back for you and we're going to get out of here. I need you to be ready for that, Granger."

"Yeah." Or at least he thought Colby said that. His lips had moved, so Ian was going to assume he'd spoken.

"You got your gun?"

Colby made an abortive move that ended in a wince of pain, but his hand was tight round the grip of his PC 945.

"Good man," Ian said. "I won't be long."

Despite his determined words, he hesitated. He couldn't leave Colby like this. But he had no choice. He leaned his forehead against Colby's—it was cold, so cold—and then he kissed his unresponsive lips. "Love you," he said gruffly, and refused to believe that he might have left saying the words until it was too late.

He was crawling out of the drain when something made him pause and turn back. Colby's eyes were open the merest crack, and Ian read his lips rather than heard the faint sound he made. "Stay safe."

Ian smiled, because that's what Ian did. "Always," he promised. "Be ready when I get back."

And with that he was gone, wriggling as quickly and smoothly along the ditch as his arm would allow.

 

Ian had got about three-quarters of the way along the ditch when he came to a halt. If he were in the house, he'd have most of his attention trained on the two ends of the ditch, simply because it would be suicidal for anyone to come out in the middle. If Ian confounded their expectations, if he was quick enough and stealthy enough—and Ian Edgerton was stealthy like no one else alive—he could be on his way to cover before they'd noticed. Or bleeding out on the lip of the ditch alongside some unfortunate fox.

Checking his gun one last time, he took a deep breath. His muscles tensed, ready to propel his body into action. And then he stilled, straining to listen, scarcely able to believe what he thought he was hearing. But the sirens got louder, and then the sound of engines being gunned as wheels tried to find a grip on the wet mud track. The fucking cavalry was here.

For one indulgent moment, he let his head drop back against the side of the ditch, his relief so deep it turned his bones to water, and then he set off along the ditch, back to Colby. He could hear gunfire, and shouts of "FBI" and he no longer cared about making a noise, or his arm, or anything except getting to Colby.

He was still worming his way along the ditch when the gunfire finally died, and the air was filled with shouts.

"Colby! Ian!"

"Granger!"

Carefully, in case Don had brought trigger-happy rookies with him, he slid his gun into his waistband and stood up, hands in the air and very clearly not a threat. "Don," he said.

Don was standing not fifty yards away, watching as one man was marched out of the house, handcuffed, and shoved into a vehicle. There were no indications of any other survivors. Ian couldn't find it in himself to care.

The relief that spread across Don's face seemed to lighten the whole grey, rainy afternoon. "You been having a mud bath, Edgerton?"

"Colby," Ian said. "We need medics, _now."_

At the urgency and despair in Ian’s voice, Don keyed his radio immediately, demanding a chopper for urgent evac. "Where is he?" he snapped, and Ian levered himself out of the ditch to show him. Or at least he tried to, but his arm crumpled on him. Don was suddenly there, helping him up and holding him while the world whirled around Ian.

"In the pipe," he got out, gesturing towards it rather than taking off at the sprint he wanted to, because his legs were threatening to give out on him and he thought he was going to throw up.

Don shouted something over his shoulder and two agents went haring past. And then David was running over, panic all over his face. "Colby," he said. "Where's Colby?"

The mention of Colby's name was enough to get Ian moving again, shaking off Don because he didn't need a goddamn babysitter.

By the time they got to the pipe, the agents that had run ahead were lifting Colby out of the ditch onto the wet grass, and he heard Don curse as he saw how still and limp he was. But none of that mattered, nothing mattered except the way Colby's arm was trailing because he looked… he looked…

Ian was on his knees next to Colby, hand clenched round Colby's jaw, shaking him back and forth, feeling the complete lack of resistance. "Fuck it, Granger," he snarled. "You don't do this, you understand me? You don't get to fucking _do_ this."

Strong hands were dragging him away from Colby. He fought instinctively. As Don's arms tightened round him, restraining him, he used a well-placed elbow and threw his head back, feeling it connect with Don's face.

" _Damn_ it, Edgerton." But even through the pain in his voice, Don kept hold of Ian, and the strength that had kept Ian going this long seemed to desert him. He sagged in Don's hold, watching David and another agent start CPR.

"It was only a minute," Ian said. "I only left him for a minute, Don, I swear."

"I know," Don said, and there was such an ache in his voice that Ian knew—Don had already given up on Colby. But he was wrong. He couldn't be more wrong because the one thing Colby would never do was to give up. Otherwise he'd have given up on Ian long ago, the way everyone else did when Ian refused to compromise, refused to be what other people wanted and lose himself in the process.

David shouted, pushing the woman who was doing chest compressions away, and thank _God_ , Colby was breathing again.

Don's arms loosened, and Ian fell to his knees in the mud beside Colby, wondering why his hand was unsteady as he raised it to Colby's face.

"Damn it, Granger, I am _not_ doing that again." Sinclair's voice was shaking. When Ian tore his eyes away from Colby long enough to look, he saw David running his hands over his face.

"Chopper's ten minutes out," Don said, putting his hand on David's shoulder for an instant before he crouched down next to Ian. "Someone should look at that arm," he said, and Ian followed his gaze to see that the dark stain on his makeshift bandage was bigger than it had been.

"Later," he said, because he was feeling cold and dizzy and was fairly sure that if someone started poking at his arm, he'd lose focus. He wasn't doing that, not till he knew Colby was safe.

Someone dropped a jacket round Ian's shoulders, and that was the first time anyone had ever snuck up on him like that. He didn't like what that said about what kind of a state he was in, but he clutched at the jacket because he was cold. Not as cold as Colby, though. He left his hand on Colby's cheek, because that way Colby would know he was there. And he stayed there, kneeling in the wet, and watching the afternoon turn to dusk as the rain fell.

Agents were moving around the scene, but Don ordered everyone to keep clear of them except for David and Liz, who looked like she was crying. At some point Don had ended up kneeling next to Ian, offering subtle, unspoken support that kept Ian upright despite the way the world kept swimming around him.

He must have lost time somewhere, because the next thing he knew he was being encouraged to his feet and there were medics bending over Colby. The world was spinning and Don was shouting, and everything went dark.

***

Ian knew he should open his eyes but they were so very heavy that he gave up and continued floating in darkness. It was some time later, when he heard the sounds of people nearby, he realised just how vulnerable he was and forced his eyes open. The muzziness of his brain and his dry mouth informed him he’d been given morphine, just as his eyes finally opened far enough to confirm he was in hospital. Great. He usually ducked faster than that.

As he tried to remember what had happened, it came flooding back and adrenaline surged through him, cutting through the cotton in his head. He wasn't panicking. Ian Edgerton never panicked. But he might have been a little stressed, because it took him three tries to unhook himself from the IV with clumsy fingers that were stupidly shaky. Blood loss would do that to a man. That was the only reason for it. Nothing to with needing to know about Colby or the way that thinking about him had Ian's heart thudding so erratically he thought he might be having a heart attack.

He stumbled when he got out of bed because the floor was further away than it had looked, but he found clean, dry clothes stuffed in the bedside cupboard, which he counted as a win. He'd just finished pulling on a pair of jeans—and wasn't that fun, with not being able to balance and not being able to see all that well because of the black spots in front of his eyes—when the door to his room opened.

"I might have known," Don said, and set down the cup of coffee he'd been carrying. "I'll give you a hand."

"Colby," Ian said, and didn't care that it came out sounding desperate.

"He's going to be okay," Don said.

Ian's legs threatened to give out. He sank down on the side of the bed and let Don help him into his shirt before he knew what he was doing. When Don would have done up the buttons for him, he batted his hands away because he wasn't a damn invalid. He was Ian Edgerton. But by the time he finally got the shirt done up, he was sweating slightly and his arm felt like it was on fire. He was also, he realised, wearing a shirt he had never seen before and which looked like it had time-travelled from the eighties, where it had been perfectly at home.

"Your clothes were kind of muddy, so I brought some in from home," Don said when he saw the direction of Ian's gaze. "We thought your stuff was probably at Colby's but none of us wanted to go poking around in his apartment in case it's as much a mess as his desk."

So Ian had probably been deluding himself if he thought that three trained investigators had managed to witness him kneeling next to Colby in the mud and the rain and not noticed _something._ He wondered briefly if he should say something about the black eye Don was sporting, which looked like someone had slammed their skull into his face, but he decided against it. It could have been from anything, after all.

But of course Don was going to get his revenge. "So, you and Colby, huh?"

"I guess," Ian said, because it wasn't like he could exactly deny it now.

"How long?"

"A year," Ian said, then paused. “Maybe two,” he added, feeling compelled by some sort of unwelcome honesty.

Don snorted. "And they say _I'm_ bad at relationships? At least I usually know how long I've been in one."

"It's not a relationship," Ian said instantly.

Don, damn him, just looked at Ian. The knowingness in his eyes had Ian conducting a sudden but thorough visual check of the ingress and egress points in the room. He wasn't avoiding Don's gaze. He was simply checking the hospital's security.

"How did you find us?" he asked, after he'd left it long enough that it didn't look like a change of subject.

Don picked up his coffee and took a sip. "Despatch let us know you hadn't reported in on schedule and when Charlie heard your last known location, he had some sort of probability epiphany, so I called in backup."

Thank God he had. Ian almost felt guilty about that black eye now. He also owed Charlie a new slide-rule, or whatever it was you gave mathematicians to say thanks. But however grateful he was, he had to work out a way to shake Don off so he could go see Colby.

It seemed Don read his mind. "Come on, Edgerton, let's go rescue your man," he said with a smirk. "The last I saw of him, David was lecturing him about how he did not learn workplace first aid just to keep resuscitating Granger."

"He's got a point."

"I'm not arguing with that, but have you ever heard David when he lets rip? He cites Bureau procedures by paragraph numbers."

"Crap," Ian said. "I didn't even know we _had_ procedures."

"Tell me about it."

Thankfully, by the time they got to Colby's room, David had disappeared. Liz was there, sitting quietly next to a sleeping Colby. He was hooked up to various machines and far too pale, but he was breathing. That was all that mattered.

"Edgerton," Liz said, and looked him up and down as she stood. "I was going to say it's good to see you looking better, but I'm not sure you are. Sit down before you fall down."

Ian glared half-heartedly at her. She simply smiled, said goodbye, and left.

"I'm not sure whether it's the mud in your hair, the fact you look as if you're three days dead, or the sudden realisation you've got _feelings_ that's making you less than scary these days," Don said. "You want coffee?"

He left before Ian could put him right about the feelings nonsense.

Ian didn't know where the hell this hospital kept their coffee machines because Don was gone so long that Ian fell asleep in the hard plastic chair next to Colby's bed. He woke up three hours later to a crick in his neck, his back in spasms, and Colby smiling sleepily at him.

***

It was four days before Colby was discharged. Four days in which the rest of the team spent far more time at the hospital than any supposedly crack crime-fighting unit should have been able to afford. During their visits they gave Colby crap for the mud that was still in his hair despite the nurses' best efforts, gave Ian crap about not resting properly, and were generally so obnoxious that Ian's hand twitched more than once, longing for his rifle. They didn't actually _say_ anything about _them,_ but Liz kept smiling when she looked at Ian sitting next to Colby's bed, Nikki rolled her eyes with distressing frequency, and every now and then David shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe something. Even so, Ian thought he might have gotten away with ignoring their less than subtle behaviour if only Colby hadn't kept blushing.

He sighed as he unlocked the door to Colby's apartment, Colby yawning beside him. He guessed their… whatever it was, had been well and truly outed.

When they got inside, he saw that Colby was pale, with lines of strain bracketing his mouth. Despite that, Colby protested at his suggestion of lying down and resting for a while, only agreeing when Ian ever so subtly winced when he took his jacket off. Ian could practically see the cogs turning in Colby's head as he realised that Ian might be in pain and need to rest. Some days Ian wondered how Colby had survived working deep cover, because he was so damn easy to read. Or maybe he was only this obvious when it came to _them._ Not that there _was_ a them, not the way the whole damn team had seemed to think. They were simply indulging in a bit of mutual stress relief. Nothing more than that, and if Ian had to remind Don of his ability with a rifle to stop those genuinely amused creases around his eyes that now showed every time he looked at Ian, he'd do it.

Colby was pulling his shirt over his head, his wound causing him to move more slowly than usual so that his acres of muscles were uncovered with teasing slowness. It should have been tantalising, but for the first time, Ian didn't notice the graceful strength in that body; he was too busy staring at that dressing, so white on Colby's skin, holding him together the way Ian had tried so hard to in the cold and the wet, desperate to keep Colby's blood inside him, to keep his heart pumping. He shivered as he remembered Colby's eyes fluttering closed and the fear he might never open them again. The fear that Ian might never again see Colby looking at him again in any of the myriad of ways he did—amusement, arousal, awe—though that last one had faded as he'd got to known Ian and had stopped seeing the legend and started seeing the man. And behind each of those expressions there was always a warmth there, something Ian never saw when Colby looked at anyone else. It was something he reserved for Ian. Ian didn't have a name for it, but it gave him something which nothing else did. A feeling of belonging. And if he stood here thinking any longer, Granger would be stripped off and in bed before Ian had even unlaced his shoes.

It was the first time Ian could remember sleeping with someone when it wasn't either after sex or a matter of survival in sub-zero conditions. As he settled under the quilt, he felt uncertain in a way he never did, conscious of his body so close to Colby's yet without an excuse to touch. But then Colby moved in close against him, his strong arms reaching around Ian to hold him close. Instead of feeling trapped the way Ian knew he should, it was good to have the reminder that Colby's heart was beating strong and steady next to him, and they were warm and dry. Safe.

But then he realised Colby was breathing faster than usual, a little roughly. "I didn't think you'd make it when you went down that ditch," he said, muffled words that were soft and painful as his face pressed against the warmth of Ian's shoulder in a way that Ian suspected was to hide his expression. "Promise me you won't do something that stupid again, not for anything."

Anger licked through Ian. No one had the right to ask him to promise anything. If he chose to offer it, that was another matter. The anger grew as he wondered how the _hell_ Colby thought Ian could have sat there and watched him die without doing a thing to try and prevent it. But then he felt the tension in Colby's body and he bit back his anger as he realised Granger wasn't trying to control him. Instead, he was barely holding it together at the thought of Ian not making it. A reaction which Ian understood a little too well after the last few days. "Promise me you won't go and get yourself shot again and you've got a deal," he said at last.

"Count on it," Colby said, his voice hoarse. And though they both knew they were lying, that getting hurt was out of their control, they lay in the half-light of Colby's bedroom and held on to one another and pretended it was true.

Ian must have drifted off to sleep, because he woke up some time later to Colby poking him in the ribs. "Want to tell me just why Don came in to see me with a stack of paperwork covered with Charlie's calculations? Apparently he's proved how the psychological benefits of having dogs at work outweigh the risk analysis that the Bureau did of our workspace."

Ian grinned. He'd had a number of conversations with Don that meandered strangely, courtesy of blood-loss and painkillers, but hadn't realised Don would take any of them seriously. He supposed he should have; Don was one hell of a team leader. "You want to guess?"

"So I can get myself a big dumb mutt and call it Ian," Colby suggested.

"Or get a little Yorkie that is definitely _not_ called Ian. Because I have to say, a Yorkie sounds more your pace, Granger. You could tie a pink ribbon in its hair and everything."

Colby tried to look indignant but couldn't stop a grin from breaking through.

"You remember what we talked about, then," Ian said, so casual that the effort almost hurt.

Colby returned his gaze steadily. "Yeah," he said. "I do." He took a breath. "For the record, I feel the same way."

And Ian's impending humiliation, his need to get out of this bed and pretend he had never let his fear get the better of him and allowed those words to spill out, words that made him vulnerable, the one thing he never was, disappeared at the expression in Colby's eyes. No judgement, no mockery—just warmth and a happiness he'd never seen in him before. And then Colby stopped looking at him, thank God, and snuggled—there was no other word for it, despite the fact Granger was built like a linebacker—against him.

Ian had shot men for less. Well, maybe not actually shot them, but definitely reduced them to incoherent wrecks in fear for their lives. He blamed the pain meds for the fact he didn't call Colby on being so sappy, but instead let him snuggle closer. It was even possible that Ian tightened his hold, just a little.

"You know the Yorkie has to be called Don," Ian said, a few minutes later. "So you can yell at it when it pees on the office floor."

"I am not yelling at a little dog that's about a hundredth the size of me," Colby said firmly. After an instant he added hurriedly, "And I am _not_ getting a Yorkie, damn it, Edgerton. It's going to be a big, manly, hairy dog."

"Whatever you say, Colby," Ian said, holding Colby close.

Colby pressed a kiss over Ian's heart, and Ian suddenly knew it was true: he couldn't see how to refuse Colby anything. He couldn't see why he'd want to.

He rubbed his cheek against Colby's hair and found he was smiling. "Whatever you say."


End file.
